


a hole in his heart

by lester_sheehan



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Cancer Arc, F/M, Gen, MSR, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 12:25:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5090681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lester_sheehan/pseuds/lester_sheehan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snapshots of Scully's struggle with cancer. Could be considered AU in the last segment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a hole in his heart

**Author's Note:**

> My second attempt at an X-Files fic. I hope it's somewhat okay.

She’s sitting alone in the living room, hand clasped tight around a glass of wine. She watches the liquid as it sloshes against the sides, stirs it gently with a fingertip. The silence fills her with indescribable hatred, drills down into her core. She wants it to end. 

Taking another sip, she squeezes her eyes shut tight, as though able to block out all of her fears. As though the darkness will mean that this isn’t happening, this isn’t her life, this isn’t real. 

She isn’t dying.

The wine catches in her throat as a sob rattles through her chest; it tears at her insides, pulling her apart: fibre by fibre, memory by memory. There’s a lot of things that she hasn’t been able to accept during her time on the X-Files, but this is by far the hardest. 

She’s always believed in a logical explanation, a reason behind everything. And now, as she stares into oblivion, bracing herself for that final, concluding fall, she can’t help but question why. Why her? Why now? Why _this_? The glass starts to shake in her hand.

In an act of complete and utter desperation, she hurls it at the wall, watching as the wine drips like blood, pooling onto the carpet. _She’s not ready._ Tears spill over her lashes. _She’s not ready._ Her shoulders hunch and her head falls into her palms. She stays there, weeping, into the night.

_She’s not ready._

*

She’s been locked in the room for a full thirty minutes. Holding the x-ray slightly above her head, she can’t avert her eyes, can’t look away. It almost seems to stare back at her. 

Her fingers tighten, creasing the edges, as she forces herself to accept that no matter how long she inspects the image, studies the blackened shadows of her skull, nothing will change.

There’s a knock on the door, Mulder’s silhouette swaying slightly, as though he’s rocking back and forth on his toes. “Scully?” he calls, tapping on the glass. “Can I come in?”

She swallows, unable to move. Seconds pass. His hand slowly falls to his side. Through the window, a breeze floats into the room, carrying with it the sound of chirping birds and long lost whispers. There’s a small, “I’ll see you later then, Scully?” before he disappears. The sadness in his voice cuts into her like a knife.

She places the x-ray on the side and leaves the room. 

*

She’s at his desk when he walks in, buried under stacks of paperwork. “What’re you doing there?” he says, leaning against the wood. He watches her intently, eyebrows furrowed.

Sticking the end of a pen in her mouth, she mutters, “Just sorting through some things,” before glancing up briefly. “I thought you were on a case.”

He shrugs, a goofy smile grazing his features. “Couldn’t be more interesting than spending time with you.”

Chuckling quietly, she places the pen down. It rattles atop the surface, eventually coming to a still. “It was a dud, huh?”

“Totally.”

Her gaze shifts back to the paper in front of her, head shaking softly. “Go find someone else to entertain you, Mulder.”

When he doesn’t reply, she sighs and pushes the chair back, folding her arms across her chest. “What?” His expression is one she can’t quite place, but something about it unsettles her.

“Mulder, what?” There’s an edge of annoyance this time, an underlying impatience. 

His voice cracks slightly as he rubs beneath his nose, nodding his head towards her, and says, “You’ve, uh…”

Immediately, her hand shoots up, blood coating her fingers. It’s not much, but when she wipes the first trickle away, it doesn’t stop. “I’m going to…” She pauses, takes a breath. “Excuse me.” She bustles past him, grabbing a tissue as she does so. 

She’s barely three steps out the door before he’s caught up to her, grasping her arm gently. “Where are you going, Scully?” he asks, truly unable to understand. “It’s okay.”

“Is it?” she says, slipping from his grasp. “Because as far as I’m concerned, things are far from okay.”

His frown deepens. “Has something happened?”

She removes the tissue from her nose, squeezes it tight within her palm. “No,” she lies, anger fading. “Nothing’s happened. I’m just… I’m tired, Mulder.”

If he doesn’t believe her, he doesn’t say; instead, he nods solemnly and rubs her shoulder. “Of course. You go... get some rest.”

He watches as she leaves, a hole in his heart and tears in his eyes.

*

They’re in Skinner’s office. Scully sits in the chair, hands in her lap, while Mulder explains the details of a recent case. Occasionally, he’ll look to her for validation, and she’ll nod in agreement, but apart from that, she barely pays attention at all.

She’s lost in her thoughts, eyes focused on something far outside the window. Soon, this will all be gone. There’ll be no more cases, no reports. No lying, no believing…no _her_.

The thought makes her want to throw up. 

Fidgeting slightly in her seat, she listens to Mulder babble, finding comfort in the sound of his voice. She’s slipping and she knows it- has seen it coming for a long while. Each breath feels like glass and her mind is somewhere else, somewhere far beyond her current state. 

She hears Mulder’s voice stop, a shuffle of clothes replacing it. He’s standing now, and she follows suit, using the edges of the chair to push herself up. Her knees feel weak, as though they could shatter at any moment, and a sudden pain clutches her head. 

“Scully?” Skinner’s the first to speak, face full of worry. 

“Mm?” she says, blinking rapidly, reaching for his desk in an attempt to steady herself. Her hand grips the wood so tightly- supporting her entire weight- that splinters force their way into her skin. 

And then she can’t hear anything. 

Her legs give way, but Mulder’s faster: his arm stretches across her back, lowering her to the floor. She can see his mouth moving, the way his eyes film over; she can see Skinner reaching for his phone, fingers shaking; and she can see the way her vision dims, light fading into darkness, shadows dancing at the edges. 

And then she can’t see anything at all. 

*

That was the last time Special Agent Dana Scully opened her eyes.

For hours, Mulder sat by her bedside, gripping her hand. He’d wait, and he’d wait, and he’d wait for a miracle. But that miracle never came. 

In her final moments, he’d swear that she could hear him. He’d whisper to her as she lay still, watching the rise and fall of her chest, begging her to open her eyes. He’d tell her stories of his childhood, of cases he’d worked on long before they'd ever met. He’d rest his head by her side and cry until his voice was hoarse and his eyes were rimmed and bloodshot.

He never gave up on her. Not when the doctors told him that her chances were close to none. Not when Skinner told him to go home, that there was nothing he could do. Not even when the nurse told him to prepare himself for the worst.

He refused to let her go.

And when her body finally gave in, and the machine signalled that it was the end, Mulder realised that the nurse had made a fatal mistake. Nothing could have prepared him for that, and nothing could fix the wound in his chest. 

He never returned to the X-Files.


End file.
